Body Heat

Body Heat ★★★½

Love the atmosphere of this thing. If its old hat classic noir sensibilities are akin to ready-to-spread butter, the sweat-soaked bed-scapades of the 80’s is surely the hot knife.

Maybe still, it’s the other way around. Truly, a pitcher of cool H2O and a handful of your closest painkiller come well advised. Or risk not seeing through the smoke of lust turned greed. And have the metallic bite of primal juice blind all in the way of so-called reason or coherent male logic.

It's when the beads of perspiration march to the shimmering chorus of balcony-laid garden chimes. And the cold air breeze transpires into hot winds. Even then, do the human-sized pools birthed under the Florida sunlight feel somewhat undercooked. When pit against the scorching heatwave of forbidden love.

Of course, anyone with a residency at the school of all things genre erotica might barely manage a tan. Or even, those acquainted with the climate of the cynical chokehold of its forefathers found elsewhere. That’s a select few sure to have their factor 50 and favourite sunnies already in tow.

Certainly, any stickler for the sweet release of rain could argue for the whole torrid affair to stick together within the sweltering haze of he-said, she-said. Or heatstroke to be a likely symptom of its dizzy cross-a-minute suffocation. Still, it’s hard not to fall under the spell of this morality-parched warning call of thinking with one head. At the remiss of, uh, the other.

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